Constant Companion


pain 1

You arrived in a flurry of blood red cloak, wielding smouldering knives. I watched as your body came to a stop. You were used to making extravagant entrances. I looked into your blank face, turned and ran through deserts which blistered my soles and left an aching dryness in my throat; through forests so thick the darkness was impenetrable, through cityscapes teeming with blind humanity. I shouted for help, yet no one came.
My journey stopped where it had begun, I knew I could never outrun the inevitable. Home would never be the same once you entered and took up residence. Desperately, I still tried, running through the house, slamming doors in your face, but like a scarcely remembered childhood dream, you walked through every defensive wall I hastily threw up. I stood in the center of my bedroom, my safe haven, and turned around. You were leaning against the doorjamb, your hands slid nonchalantly into deep pockets.
“You thought you could run,” he smirked. I nodded, unsure of whether my voice could ever be found. My heart was beating wildly in my chest; I put a quivering hand over it to steady its beat.
“No one escapes.” It was merely a statement and I watched helplessly as he threw his head back and laughed uproariously. He stopped abruptly, his gaze sought mine and in their brown, muddy pools, things moved and screamed silently.
“Ready or not, here I come,” he whispered and padded towards me.
“Do you realize what will happen?” he asked. I knew that he needed me to vocalize the inevitable; every soul sucking vampire needs their own form of invitation.
I nodded, forcing my vocal cords into the semblance of a voice.
“I know you are going to stay,” my voice sounded as hopeless as I felt.
“Welcome, Pain, my constant companion, I know that your visit will be agonizingly long. I never really had a choice, did I?”
He merely shook his head and took up residence.


Gardner-diamond syndrome: a real bruiser


'Who gave you that black eye?'

I guess I would once again put on my Super Woman cape and come to the aid of the odour distressed voices in my head.
“I am sorry. It’s me,” a shy voice answered. I looked around but failed to find the owner.
“Down here,” it said. At my feet a tiny syndrome lay helplessly.
“I am Fish Odour Syndrome. Sorry to trouble you, but could you please return me to Syndrome Lake? The odour will disappear if you do.” It was a disgusting slimy green colour and I hesitated to pick it up with my bare hands.
“Not to worry, a kick will do fine,” the voice reassured me. I kicked at it.
“Wheeeee,” it screamed as it plopped down into the lake and by Jove the smell had indeed dissipated.
Everyone applauded.
‘Excuse me, but none of the syndromes deserve this disrespectful behaviour! You are herby ordered to appear before the Syndrome Council within 24 hours,” the rude voice continued.
“And who the hell are you to issue orders? I am the one in charge around here,” the muse said and I could hear the sudden anger in her voice. No one had ever challenged her in this manner.
“Calm down, I was the one who booted the syndrome into the lake,’ I said. I hated conflict and felt that it rested upon my shoulders to calm the choppy waters.
“You me, me you we are interactive are we not?” I could not argue that this was indeed the case; she was my alter ego and I hers.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Gardner-diamond syndrome at your service,” it answered haughtily. It could best be described as a giant bruise. Purple, green and yellow covered its entire quivering body.
“We have kindly allowed you to take up residence in this crowded brain and yet you dare to command me?” The muse was clearly on the war path. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the Lexicon Dragon, Sir Laughalot, the book worms and the Craggy Spiders run for cover.

Fish odor syndrome- phew!



“Thar she blows,” said the Lexicon Dragon in a husky voice. She had donned a captain’s cap in the interim and was smoking a foul smelling pipe. She resembled Captain Ahab, which by process of elimination, made me Moby Dick, or rather a large whale. I resented the comparison, but yes, I did indeed blow. Chunks of grey matter flew across the room and landed in jellied chunks on the carpet. The muse had to pick some extraordinarily gross pieces from her hair.
‘Juck,” she exclaimed, “I do believe your grey matter is rather gooey for an intelligent writer such as yourself. It should have more substance, like my upper thigh from which, I am sure, a small adult could swing.”
I paid her no mind, I was having a meltdown. Like an angry two year old, I allowed all the pent up emotions to simply boil over. If I am not mistaken I think I might have stamped my feet and rolled around on the floor for a while. Self pity is a terrible thing to witness especially if you wallow in it like a pig in mud. Eventually I flopped onto the floor, cradling what was left of my exploded head. I was overjoyed to find that my ears were still attached; my irritating, gigantic nose hung around like a lump of clay. I couldn’t get rid of the thing!
I was slapped out of my stupor by an evil odour. I could see it hanging green and sluggish in the middle of the room.
“Did the cat catch one of the Koi again? Who forgot to take it out?” I asked as I glanced around at the characters present. They all shrugged, but were wrinkling their assorted noses in disgust.
“What died?” asked the muse, she was never one to mince words.
“Not me. Not yet anyway.”
“Damn, it’s disgusting!” All the voices were raised in unison and I could feel a headache coming on. Heaven knows why I always had to solve everyone’s problems.
“Don’t put yourself out on our account,” she of the jiggling bottom said.

Exploding head syndrome- KABOOM!:


exploding head

“Did I tell you to make it part of your very public blog?” she asked and I had to admit that it was due to my own stupidity that the world now knew that I had the dreaded M. I could hear my eggs shrivelling up and calling for help. I did not want any more children, so why on earth was I feeling sad about the approach of the dreaded M?
“It’s the loss of the possibility of having a child,” said the muse, once more in her intelligent Einstein phase. I was starting to feel warm and fuzzy towards her; she understood after all.
“Imagine two more of you running around and driving us all to drink?” she said, rolling her eyes.
“What is wrong with being a little eccentric?” I could feel the heat rising in my neck and settling in my cheeks. Due to the chaotic pole dancing of my hormones, anger came easily, bouts of crying was a close second. She of the bounteous bust took one look at me and bounded (the walls shook and bits of plaster cascaded form the ceiling) to the light switch. With a smirk she turned on the ceiling fan and whistled loudly. A white elephant appeared which duly flapped his large ears at her command. A cool breeze floated across my burning cheeks.
“Have you no sympathy woman?” I asked, “Just wait until you find yourself in this same aging boat.” By this time I was livid, the roots of my hair had turned red and smoke escaped the top of my head. If I was a cartoon character, you would have heard a loud, echoing whistle as I let off steam.
“Everyone, dive for cover!” she shouted. “Her head is about to explode- go to code red immediately! She is about to give new meaning to the phrase waking up with a bang!”
“Once again…NOT FUNNY!”
“Run for your lives!” This was the last thing I heard before a loud explosion filled the room.

Dystonia with menopause on the side



“Please keep in mind that I want this to be a serious discussion about a serious disease,” I asked for the umpteenth time. Even while I said it, I knew that the battle had already been lost. The characters in my skull were a comedic bunch and I waited for the penny to drop.
“Well, its’ a twisted story,” the muse was the first to succumb.
“That’s awful,” I sputtered, feeling rather embarrassed.
“Dear, I am sure that these sufferers have a hell of a time dealing with the illness, but I think one should rather focus on the positive. They say that five minutes of laughter a day can extend your life by at least ten years.”
“Be that as it may, I am sure that it is no laughing matter. Have you seen how contorted their bodies become? Uncomfortable in the extreme,” I argued.
“Their bodies can’t be as distorted as your mind, dear?”
“How did we get from Dystonia to the state of my mind?” I asked, knowing that she had something up her very large sleeve as usual.
“Sometimes you twist and contort and stuff us into tiny holes. You have Dystonia of the mind, dear.”
“Only when you disobey or become erratic.” I felt the sudden need to defend myself against the rallying hordes.
“Sometimes I need some space and time to think, and you know that you carry on,” I said glaring at her.
“Me?” she asked innocently.
“Of course, you know that you do.” I could feel myself becoming hot under the collar.
“Oooh, the temperature around here is definitely rising,” she said, fanning her face melodramatically.
“Are you sure you aren’t experiencing early menopause, dear?”
I hated the fact that she could read me like a comic book. Yes, I was a woman of a certain age and the hot flushes were rightfully, dreadfully mine, but was it really necessary for the entire bloody world to know about them?

Cotard’s syndrome or when I became a zombie:



I slipped into the role quite comfortably. Some people are of the opinion (read the muse) that I am a drama queen, but I am merely capable of playing different roles superbly. Perhaps my imagination is just a tad overly dramatic and visually inclined, but what on earth is wrong with that?
“Hnnnhhhh….help me,” I groaned. I had my arms outstretched in front of me and my feet were dragging on the floor. I allowed my head to slump onto my shoulders and groaned convincingly. The Lexicon Dragon peered around the wall of her cave.
“What kind of language is hnnnhhh? It does not compute and I cannot find it in any of the dictionaries I have consulted.”
“Zzzzooommmbie ssssppeeeaaakkk,” I said, slurring the words.
“Are you quite allright?” she asked solicitously.
“Nooooo,” I answered, “I am decomposing and have the distinct urge to eat your brain, scooping it from your skull with a soup ladle.”
The Lexicon Dragon’s eyes went wide as she scurried back to her library, speed dialling the muse. The lady in question appeared within seconds, her hair covered in a zebra striped shower cap, her body wrapped in a voluminous bright orange towel. The ensemble almost turned me into a real zombie.
“Hhhnnnhhhh, a fatty brain,” I groaned as I lurched towards her. I fashioned my fingers into claws and grinned at her manically.
“Smell my decomposing flesh and quake in your boots, woman,” I added.
“As if,” she snorted. I felt quite disheartened at her blasé attitude towards my superb drama skills.
“Cotard’s Syndrome?” she asked and my bubble burst. She knew way too much, damn the woman. I kept forgetting that she could not be fooled- she was part of me after all.

Boobaliscious-are those boobs real?



“Has that alien hand of yours calmed down yet?” she asked. Bows and butterflies covered her fiery curls as she bounced into the room.

“Uhm,” I answered glancing down at the twitching appendage. I slapped at it with my left, urging it to behave.

“What the hell are those?” She was glancing over my shoulder again.

‘Let me rephrase that, what the hell was she thinking? I was born with these babies- all natural,” she said as she rudely thrust the 36 DD mammaries in my face.

“Will you stop doing that,” I said. The alien hand flapped futilely.

“Not a fan of bounteous boobs, I take it?”

“I’m busy doing research about medical anomalies.”

“Yeah, those are two huge, floatable anomalies I’d say. How does she live with those hanging from her chest? I don’t even want to know the physical complications she has. She needs a bloody towtruck to get those from point A to B.” She was gesticulating wildly and nearly knocked a sleepy Sir Laughalot from his wheel. He merely glared at her, sighed as if the world had fallen on his shoulders and trudged forward.

“Why do women feel that they are not beautiful and need the intervention of plastic surgery and unnatural enhancements?

“Societal and peer pressure,” she said. I looked up to find that she had her intelligent face on; the horn rimmed spectacles, behind which huge, owlish eyes appeared, the haughty air and the outrageously purple tweed suit.

“How accountable are the surgeons that perform these surgeries repeatedly? She has had a load of enlargements done. Is there a point where the doctor should say hell no?”

“In my learned opinion, they should do no harm and those are weapons of personal destruction. They look like large bombs, ticking and ready to go kaboom at any moment, blanketing the world in silicone.”

“Ewww, gross,” I said imagining myself swimming through rivers of the gooey stuff.”

“Don’t worry, if you had those you would never drown. Never stand on your head though as they are bound to suffocate you.” I grinned, visually imagining death by boob suffocation.

big boobs

A is for Alien Hand Syndrome



They were looking at me rather strangely. The muse was rapidly scrolling through the numbers she had accumulated for the various shrinks I had seen during the last ten years.
“I cannot control it,” I wailed. My right hand had developed a will of its own and was throwing around signals and semaphores which would cause crash landings at any airport. I would have made a chameleon on a multi-coloured box, quite nauseous.
“Melodrama,” the muse sniffed and turned away to resume sunbathing on the French Riviera.
“I actually think something is the matter with her,” piped up Sir Laughalot.
“I haven’t fallen off the wheel once today. What you see is the genuine article, in my honest opinion,” he added shyly.
My right hand was defiantly grasping at any straws it could find in the room. Tiring of this it devised ingeneous ways to pluck a cat and fluff a pillow at the same time. Moments later, everyone within the confines of my mind was ducking for cover as I threw random objects around the room.
“Crazy woman,” muttered the muse as she reached for her zebra striped cell phone. Agitatedly the dreaded right reached for the cell phone and flung it into Syndrome Lake. This was where all the maladies my various characters suffered from would surface odiferously from time to time. I saw wide, nut brown buttocks in a glittery g-string dive after it. Most of the maladies landed on the floor with a soft thud. She resurfaced ten minutes later with various minor afflictions clinging to her well endowed body.
“Not now,” she demanded and sent the bashful words skittering for cover whilst frantically dialling.
“Hello, yes, we need an extra large straight jacket NOW,” she thundered down the line.
“But, it’s just my hand, everything else seems in good working order. If I didn’t know any better I would think it’s alien.”
“Well, give it something to do then,” she suggested.
I grabbed a broom and swept the disorders back into the lake. They sighed in relief, for as we all know, misery loves company….

Here’s to health



“Health nut now, too? Along with being a tree hugger and pet lover and stroker and all around mad cap?” she asked.
“Well, you could do with at least some form of exercise, you know.” I was adamant that 2015 should be the year in which I lost weight and wrote the next best seller.
“Wishful thinking, dear. Those hips ain’t goin nowhere,” she said, drawling like a true Texan.
“And the amount of chocolate you eat would put a confectionary out of business.”
“Well, I’ve seen your stash and lady, it ain’t pretty.” I was not the only one going down, she would join me in free fall if it was the last thing I ever did.
“Emergency sugar. Pre-diabetic, remember.”
“An excuse for everything as usual. Just go for a walk now and then will you.”
“Dear, when I walk the rest of me jiggles enough to raise the continent’s heart rate. I am an exercise machine.” She demonstrated and I saw flocks of birds plummet to earth in shock. It registered 8,9 on the Richter scale.
“I am serious, pay attention. Better health equals better creativity levels. Think about it!” I was adamant and refused to be sidetracked by her jiggling thighs.
“Well, yes dear, write more. I dare say we will be able to afford luxury cruises.”
“You know authors are not in it for the money, but for the love of the written word.”
“Words cannot be eaten, dear, no matter how much you butter them.”
The root of all health is in the brain. The trunk of it is in emotion. The branches and leaves are the body. The flower of health blooms when all parts work together. ~Kurdish Saying
For more information on the side effects of the drug Xarelto, read this link.

Holy cow!



“Cows are such placid creatures and would run from the likes of you,” I said, trying to persuade her to love at least one of Nature’s many creatures.
“Does placid equal dumb?”
“What the hell was that!” my fanciful muse had taken a step backwards, her hand upon her beating heart.
“That was a Drakensberger,” I said, managing not to guffaw.
“What the hell is a Drakensberger?” she asked.
“A cow, turn around and look at it will you?” She turned ever so slowly, only to find that the dreaded creature had sidled up to her and was about to rub its snout against her Neiman Marcus mohair sweater. Its tongue was lollygagging about. The words that came out of her mouth were not fit for the tender, sculpted ear. She swatted at the poor animal, screeching at the top of her voice.
“Get it off me!”
“It’s just a cow, for goodness’ sake.”
“It has teeth, it will eat me! Those eyes, I am likely to drown in them!” She was hysterical. I was deciding whether a good slap to the face might be appropriate when she took to her heels and ran for the hills. The hand reared cow, thinking this was a new game, set off bravely after the retreating fat figure. She ran, turning around sporadically to hurl blistering cuss words at the docile creature.
To tell the truth, I had never seen the lady run as fast before and I am likely to never witness such an event again. I was laughing so hard that tears ran down my face.